Hand of Shadow - Star Wars Fanfiction
by paulb359
Summary: The Galactic Empire is at the height of its power, the rule of Emperor Palpatine is absolute. At a time when the Rebellion is in its infancy, a young Inquisitor finds that maintaining law and order is easier said than done, and the greatest threat to peace may come from within the Empire itself.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

To say the Cantina was a dive was a gross understatement. The run-down building lay virtually derelict, blaster burns marked the exterior walls and the class of the clientèle it attracted made Chalmun's Cantina in Mos Eisley seem like the grandest of Coruscant penthouses. It certainly wasn't the place one went to find reputable company, although a Vibroblade in the back wasn't out of the question.

If the cantina's exterior was bad, the interior was worse. The stench of stale sweat and alcohol filled the room, thick enough to taste. Clouds of Tabac smoke formed an impenetrable haze that collected in the corners and booths and hid the occupants from view entirely. Fortunately, the hooded figure needed neither sight or smell as he moved slowly through the dank surroundings, sliding easily past shady characters in various stages of inebriation as he approached the bar. The tender droid approached, rusty legs creaking, but was dismissed with a casual wave of the hand as the figure looked carefully from left to right, studying each patron intently before his gaze came to rest on a scarred man hunched over a frothing mug of lum, a blaster pistol casually laid on the bar beside him. A bulky Trandoshan stood to either side with scaled arms folded, bodyguards or retainers with strength enough to tear a grown man limb from limb, assuming their razor-sharp teeth and claws didn't rip him to shreds first.

The hooded figure slid around the semi-conscious Rodian beside him and approached the Trandoshan bodyguards. The near one sniffed at the air and turned to face him, hissing a warning as one clawed hand reached for the blaster carbine on his hip. He never made it. With a flick of the hooded figure's wrist, the Trandoshan rose three feet from the floor and went crashing into a booth, scattering squealing Jawas. A sudden silence filled the cantina as the second Trandoshan crumpled to the floor as a levitating barstool hit him square in the snout.

The scarred pirate twisted in his seat, bringing his blaster to bear on the intruder who had defeated his bodyguards so easily. The robed man's hand darted out and caught the pirate's gun-hand in a vice-like grip, twisting the arm away until it the pirate grunted and the blaster fell from slack fingers to clatter on the floor. Despite his fractured radius, the pirate managed to keep the pain from his face and instead kept it a contorted mask of rage as he was forced back against the bar.

"You're dead for this! You hear me? Next time you turn your back, you're dead!"

The figure made no reply, and instead just placed a datacard on the bar and nodded for the pirate to read it. He did so, and when he was finished, he threw it to the ground and spat on it.

"That's what I think of your Empire! Your threats mean nothing to me!" The pirate spat. "We aren't afraid of..."

The pirate's sentence ended abruptly as the humming energy blade sliced through his neck and he dropped to a heap in the floor.

"You should be..." Said the robed figure as he prodded the severed head with the tip of his boot. "You should be..."


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

The engines of the Lambda-class shuttle whined as the wings retracted and the heavy craft slid softly onto the landing pad. The wind at this altitude was fierce enough to rock the shuttle on its landing gear until the protective bubble closed like a clamshell above it, sealing the hangar and casting everything into pitch darkness. Descending the ramp, Stryker pulled his hood up and folded his arms, using his senses to guide him through the gloom. The Inquisitorius stronghold on Byss was always kept dark, the High Inquisitors felt that depriving prisoners of their sight would cause them to break more easily under interrogation – for the most part, they were right.

_How many have passed through these hallways, never to see the light of day again?_

Stryker stepped aside to let a sinister torture droid pass, lit only by the blood red photoreceptors between the clamshell portions of its head. He could feel the despair and pain in the air, even though the dungeons were buried a kilometre below ground. There was another sensation hanging at the back of his mind, secrets and malice – the intentions of the High Inquisitors and those tasked with extracting secrets from prisoners. Stryker suppressed a shudder. He had been in the service of the Inquisition since his eighth birthday, eight standard years ago.

"He's not happy with you, you know..."

Stryker turned, though he knew he need not to. Ghost had appeared as silently as ever beside him, the shorter Apprentice invisible in the inky blackness. Her soft, almost innocent voice always seemed out of place in a place of dark intentions and evil doing, but Stryker had seen her in combat and knew that beneath the childlike exterior was the heart of a born killer.

"He's never happy with me. This time it wasn't my fault, the fool resisted!"

"You didn't have to decapitate him..."

The two Apprentices carefully navigated the dark corridors using only their Force-enhanced senses. Non-Force sensitives navigated using Night Vision Goggles, but the stronghold had a curious way of draining their power packs at an unusual rate – some said it was the Sith artefacts in the vault punishing non-sensitives for their weakness. A shrill scream echoed through Stryker's mind and then suddenly fell silent as an unfortunate prisoner met a painful death in the cells below. He shivered. Feeling someone in combat was one thing – a quick jolt of shock and pain, then peace, feeling them die in excruciating pain as their secrets were dragged from their bodies one by one was something else. It felt like someone was trying to pry his soul open with a blunted Vibroblade and devour the feelings within.

"That's a sign of weakness, you know..." Ghost mentioned nonchalantly as they walked.

Stryker shrugged, he did not care how he appeared in front of Ghost, only how he appeared in front of his superiors and his enemies counted. They halted before a large door, which hissed as it slid upwards into the ceiling and allowed them into the bright office beyond. The sudden light was almost blinding, but their eyes adjusted quickly as they entered and knelt before the man sitting on the high-backed throne.

"Well Stryker, it seems that once again you forget the 'alive' part of my orders."

Stryker kept his gaze firmly fixed on the floor as Chief Inquisitor Rancorous rose from his throne and approached, his burgundy robes trailing on the floor behind him.

"Rise, my children. Please."

Stryker rose, though Rancorous had used the tone of voice that suggested a request, he knew that the Chief Inquisitor never asked, he demanded. It was only when Stryker rose to full height and pulled his hood free from his scruffy mass of dark hair did he see the three men standing to one side of the throne. All uniformly one point eight metres tall, with the same dark eyes and graying hair, the sight of them together made Stryker suppress a shudder. He had heard tales of Inquisitorial Clones before, but he had never come across one. Now he stood confronted by three, clad in matte-black armour plating, cradling helmets in their right arms and each sporting a pair of powerful blaster pistols in gunbelts encircling their waists. The way they stared at him made him want to shudder, for a reason Stryker couldn't place.

"You've noticed our latest acquisitions, I see. They come highly recommended from the Stormtrooper Commandos, and I am assured their skills and experiences will be of great value to us in the coming months."

Stryker's eyes darted back to Rancorous, but he dare not open his mouth. Rancorous' mouth twisted into a smile and Stryker grimaced, the older Inquisitor hadn't required any words to know what he was thinking – the Zabrak was a telepath.

"You have worked alone, Stryker, because until now your assignments have required you to work alone. Now, the Inquisitorius requires something somewhat different of you. You will take young Ghost to docking bay seventeen to board your new vessel, you will receive your orders when you have departed. These...people...will escort you, so you don't get lost..."

Stryker noticed the contempt in the Chief Inquisitor's voice as he referred to the three clones, it was rumoured the man's family had suffered during the Clone Wars and he blamed the Republic Clones for it. The rumour had died as soon as it had been voiced, however, and not a word of it had been breathed since Rancorous scrambled the rumourmonger's brain with a single thought. Though he had questions, he didn't dare risk the Zabrak's ire, and simply bowed and strode from the office.

As he navigated his way back through the corridors of the stronghold, he dimly felt the presences of the three Clones behind him, and Ghost bringing up the rear. Ghost was calm and serene as always, and for a moment Stryker thought he could hear the young girl humming quietly to herself. The Clones, on the other hand, were blank slates – he read no fear, no confusion, not even a hint of emotion, it concerned him, knowing a person's intent would allow him to act appropriately, but if he couldn't anticipate that person's next move...

Pushing the thought from his head, Stryker raised his hood as the doors to docking bay seventeen opened, and he stepped out into the sunlight to embrace his new destiny.


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

To say that the nature his new "assignment" surprised Stryker was somewhat of an understatement. He had expected to step through the doors to find some battered old freighter, barely spaceworthy but perfect for the secretive work of the Inquisitorius as so many other Apprentices did. It was not so. What greeted him was a work of art – a true representation of the power of the Inquisitorius. Twenty-nine metres of matte black metal starting with a tapered bow trailing back to over-sized engines and two pairs of stabilising wings giving it the appearance of a bird of prey. The ship rested on stubby landing legs, and a short ramp extended from the vessel's belly. Stryker was awed by the design effort put into the ship – with the already predatory appearance and matte-black hull plating, the ship was most definitely deserving of the name stencilled in barely-readable paint on the nose: 'Phantom'.

_That ship is nothing, if not art!_

The three Clones dismissed themselves, leaving the awestruck Stryker and still-humming Ghost to approach the small vessel and make their way up the boarding ramp. The interior was cramped and utilitarian, with a small cargo hold under the deck plating, and two small sleeping cubicles behind the cockpit. The cabins reminded Stryker a little too much of coffins for his tastes, but each room had a bunk with built-in cupboard and computer terminal, so they would serve. The cockpit was equally cramped, with two seats mounted side-by-side, with the pilot sitting just forward of the copilot. The controls followed a standard stick-and-yoke system, although some consoles had obviously been modified and Stryker was certain he'd seen one panel labelled 'Cloaking Device'.

As Stryker marvelled and investigated, Ghost became bored and began to poke around some more in the aft cabin. There was a soft hiss, a cheerful chirp and then a delighted giggle before silence once again fell in the small ship. Curious, Stryker poked his head through the cockpit door to see Ghost sitting cross-legged on the floor flanked by a pair of Astromech Droids, who appeared to be playing. Frowning, he stepped out and eyed the two Droids as one of them rotated its head and rolled over to him, whistling cheerfully and extending a manipulator arm with a datapad gripped in its pincers.

_Droids? Why would we need droids?_

Snatching the datapad, Stryker opened the only file listed. It listed the Droid's designation as R6-X1, built from an experimental design stolen from Industrial Automaton's lab on Nubia. Stryker wondered whether the Droid's looks and cheerful personality were Industrial Automaton's way of making up for the dismal failure that was the R5-unit, or whether they were an Intelligence modification designed to lull people into a false sense of security.

"So, Are-Six Ex-One... What do I call you?"

The Droid beeped and the answer was translated into Basic on the datapad's screen.

[My first owner designated me Sparky in reference to a faulty motivator when I was first assembled.]

Stryker nodded and patted the Droid on the flowerpot dome, ushering it away to play with its companion. Ghost remained sitting cross-legged, seemingly engaged in conversation with her Droid – a black and red R5 unit, without the use of her datapad.

_So she speaks Droidspeak, that may come in useful at some point._

"Come on Ghost, it's time for us to go."

Ghost sighed sadly, before pushing herself to her feet and slipping past him into the cockpit and the copilot's seat. Stryker followed, climbed into his own chair and strapped in and was dimly aware of the two Astromechs joining them and plugging in to the sockets behind Ghost's seat. Stryker started the engines and retracted the ramp, filling the cockpit with the whine of Sublight drives the almost musical tones of the two Droids beeping excitedly.

_Let's see if this thing flies as well as it looks._

Gripping the yoke firmly, Stryker gently nudged the throttle forward until the Phantom lifted on its Repulsorlifts and began to rise away from Byss' surface.


End file.
